The Dream of Genes

Chapter 10: Irene

After learning that the man I had sexual intercourse with was a borrowed ladder, I was angry and heartbroken. I could not believe that I had been lied to. Was everything we had a lie? How much of our relationship was real? These were the thoughts that I thought as I prepared for Jerome—no, his name wasn't Jerome, it was Vincent Anton Freeman: that was his real name. He wasn't the real Jerome Eugene Morrow I had thought he was—that I was jealous of. The real one was the one I would be meeting again today.

It had only been a few days, and my brain had still not gotten over what happened. I thought that seeing Jerome depart to Titan would bring me some closure, but that rocket never took off. My heart still loved him despite knowing better—it made me unsure of everything.

When they pulled up my driveway, I wasn't sure what to feel, so I pulled a straight face like the one I wore at work. I was dressed for the job. I was excited, if not nervous, to see Jerome, my love, again as I scampered down the stairs from the bedroom where we had previously made love.

But when I went to open the door, I was greeted with a big surprise.

Jerome, the real Jerome, was in a wheelchair. My eyes blinked at him, not believing what I saw. I looked at Jerome—no, Vincent—and mentally asked him many questions. What happened? I thought you had a problem to fix. Why is he in a wheelchair? Is he okay? He doesn't look hurt. If this is the issue you wanted me to help you with, you should have gotten a doctor and not a celestial navigator.

But I don't think he caught my eye.

I let the pair in and tried to act as if everything were normal: that Jerome was not a borrowed ladder, that the real Jerome was not in a wheelchair, and that they were not both in my house simultaneously.

Immediately, Eugene displayed rudeness towards me. He called me sweetheart, just like he had done the first time I met him. I never liked how he treated me then, and I did not appreciate it now. Nonetheless, I held my composure then, and I would do it now—for Jerome's sake, at least. Maybe Eugene was extra snobby today because of whatever happened yesterday that caused him to be in a wheelchair.

Vincent excused himself to make an apologetic phone call to our new superior—Mission Director Chino. I met the man yesterday when I went to see Jerome off in the observatory deck. Director Chino was there as well. All our directors enjoyed watching the launches from the deck, yet it never reached their eyes. However, I noticed Director Chino smile as he waited. I never saw his predecessor directors smile before the launch—only after the launch was successful. But then again, no one ever paid attention to the facial expressions of people below when what we all truly wanted to see was going up.

I took Eugene on a house tour because I was uncertain about what else to do—what do you do with someone in a wheelchair? I recognized my mistake when I was going to take him to the upper level. However, I paused at the stairs, realizing I could not not take him up on them. There would be no way for him to get up those stairs if he was injured. Instead, I took him to the other side of my property. I owned a condominium, but unlike a typical condo, which would share some walls with the neighboring condominium, mine was connected by a slim grass path near the back of the place. I never used the other side, nor did I ever rent it out.

As I slid the door open for Eugene, I realized it had been a long time since I had been in this part of my property. I never noticed there was a bathtub in the corner of this bedroom. Why was it there? I don't know. It came with the house, I guess.

I looked down at Eugene. This situation was probably as weird as it was for me as it was for him. If he was the problem Jerome needed to fix, I should at least try to solve it—even if I was not the best person to ask for an injury. If the situation were grave enough to merit a wheelchair, a mother's kiss would not do anything.

"So...how did you get injured?" I asked, walking further into the room that I had decided to give him as a last-minute decision. I sat on one of the white lounge chairs, and Eugene followed me, situating his body by mine.

Eugene did not say anything and instead looked at me funny. I was not expecting that.

I continued, trying to help him in any possible way, "The last time I saw you, you weren't in a wheelchair." The last time I saw him, he was sitting on a chair. Now, by my side, he did not look like he was in pain—there were no outright visible wounds on his body. If he was in a wheelchair, then it probably had something to do with his legs, but his pants shielded them. We were practically strangers to each other, only brought together by lies. I had possibly fallen in love with the true Jerome Morrow, yet I had not. I could only hate someone as snobbish and sarcastic as him. Yet, for my Jerome, I would persevere.

"It was a pedestrian accident," Eugene said.

I cannot imagine being in a car accident, especially with nothing protecting yourself but your body. I wondered how much it had hurt. At that moment, I was glad that the only pain I had was of the heart variety.

I remembered Jerome saying something about an accident concerning the marks on his legs. "The '99 Chrysler Lebaron?"

"Who told you that?" Eugene barked, staring me straight in the eye. The fierceness of a tiger stalking its prey lived in his green irises.

"Jerome told me," I said in a flat tone. "Or do you call him by his God-child name: Vincent?"

"He's Jerome Morrow—or at least he was supposed to be. I'm Eugene now."

"Eugene, are you okay?" I asked.